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Day in the country
A Tavistock Day in the Country: A report by the Society to the Disciplinary commission under the supervision of The President. The Intern: I was rudely woken at 10.00am by The Treasurer who had seemed fit to call at an ungodly hour. I finally located my telephone underneath a pile of empty gin glasses which had mysteriously appeared in my room since last night. The news appeared to be good: the Treasurer had identified a loophole in the tax code which he believed we could be in a position to exploit. The revelation, he claimed, had come to him when handling an indoor barbecue at 6am. The situation was highly confusing, and I could smell the booze on his breath down the telephone line. Nevertheless, societal codes indicated that my only option was consent. The Treasurer: Yesterday at 3 in the afternoon I saw a group of Spaniards (or at least I suspected they were (swarthy Caucasians)) enjoying a barbecue (henceforth BBQ) and I was inspired to join them, after a swift rebuttal and a fire-foiled-failed-theft it was clear that I could neither beat them nor join them. I resolved to emulate them. After 6 fruitless hours I realised that I needed to procure a BBQ. Having lost the budget in a high risk venture (a system too complex to explain to the average Tavistock, suffice it to say that it involved the numbers . to :::). It was apparent there was no legal/semi legal way I could procure said BBQ, it was merely a question of what I could get away with. The Belgian: I was awoken at 6.00pm by the sound of the Treasurer emptying out my metal dustbin. I tried to drive him away in the standard manner, threatening to call the Constabulary, but he was adamant that the litter receptacle in question would provide the base of his “barbecue”. As he started scanning my garden for what he described as “combustibles” and trying the lock on my back door, I realised that I would have to join his quest with immediate effect or risk a return of the pompiers. The last time a similar quest was to be undertaken, I forgot to put on the proper attire for which I got in trouble with the vice-squad. Now, to avoid such a waste of time, I grabbed a fistful of tweed and Grandfather’s binoculars to which I had taken a liking recently. While trying to climb out of my bedroom window I threw some “tools” into my trusted bag and aimed it at the Treasurer down below, “You could do some pretty interesting things with these” so I figured. If he wanted a barbecue the hard way, I would make sure that I got some “jouissance” out of it myself. The Intern: When I finally arrived at the gravel pit in which the Treasurer had holed himself up in I was a amazed to see that his prized gazebo had been replaced by a charred patch on the ground. He walked towards me threateningly and told me that someone had replaced his tent with a patch of ashes overnight. I asked him if he had tried to sleep in it nonetheless – he was blackened with ash – but he denied that this was the case. “Important changes have been made in the tax code” he told me. “We must act immediately, but I’ll require breakfast before action is plausible!” As he spoke, he moved close to me and waved the Belgian’s prized cake-slice in my face. “He was no help yesterday” he said, “but we need to find him now!” He leaned in even closer: “80% returns, with a risk factor of only 90% losses” he said, smiling to himself. What evil was afoot? The Treasurer: Having been warmly welcomed by the Belgian and been offered a glass of scotch (with implied invitation to top up ad libitum), I was presented with some mysterious looking devices (tools). He seemed restless as if he suffered from disturbed sleep, so I suggested a calming BBQ. He was fully on board with this plan to the point that he proposed that we use his metal dustbin. The contractors upgrading my château had left a skip of quality contraband, ripe for incineration that would work ideally as fuel. Because of the large number of thefts that I have reported to my insurance company from les environs, the footmen that live in my palatial abode suggested that we (they) move the mighty blaze indoors once it was lit (I was elsewhere engaged in the financial district attempting to find sound grounds for the society’s next legal venture). Whilst trying to impress potential wealthy investors over a sparkling continental beverage, I noticed a sharp market surge in the price of aggregates, nevertheless, that would be the work of tomorrow as my summer house was afire! The Belgian: To avoid a fall similar to the one from the rocks of Mousche-les-Dames, the Belgian rock face which killed a king, I decided to bring a good chisel and hammer to break those rocks. The Treasurer had grabbed a bottle of my finest scotch, so a punishment was necessary. Not only was he breaking and entering and disturbing my perfectly sweet dream, but he was undermining the sound fundiment of our society’s finances. My extraordinary foresight in bringing those tools was first met with curses from the Treasurer, whom I conveniently hit on the back of the head. He presented me with an outlandish account of events which had occurred at the tarpaulin he had rigged over a tree where he usually sleeps. The great barbecue he was dreaming of was of no interest to me, as I was looking for a stretch of green hills where I could fully immerse my selfish enjoyments. The plan, I noticed, was brutal in its simplicity: I would ensnare a minor of the local kind to play some croquet with me while trying to steal free liquor from the communal table. The barbecue would be the perfect occasion to combine these elements of my plan. The Intern: About three weeks ago, I had become embroiled in an escapade with the Treasurer. He had turned up at my residence early one morning, complaining of frosty conditions at his house and requesting the possibility of enjoying repose. Upon wakening he informed me that he was in a position to partake of insider trading at the local turf accountants. He already had my available finances in his pocket as he strode out and assured me that “the truth will out!” It transpired that he was sure of the 2.30 at Lingfield because the favourite horse had been the recipient of an advertant beating which he had delivered last week, upon suspecting it had emulated his haircut. He was wrong, the horse won, and I was left destitute. He offered to repay the debt promptly: he said he knew of an old debtor of his who would be walking down a nearby alley soon. We waited there for his passing. Upon his arrival the Treasurer strode forth and, after a flooring, the man demand that he hand over his wallet. His friend was acting suspiciously, in my opinion, and I was presently forced to commence combat with the ruffian. By the time I had spoiled him the Treasurer had comprehensively beaten his debtor and proposed that we hide the corpse. His companion, fearing for his life, told us of an aggregate reserve at a disused local quarry where we could commit the deed. The Treasurer: A business partner of mine had offered me the purchase of a significant quantity of aggregates that he claimed he had procured from a disused cement works in the Weardale area. Eager to examine the security arrangements of the investment I had chauffeur drive me upriver (he talked a lot (for a man in his position)). After the events at the quarry the Society needed to wind down with a game of cricket (skins versus colours). Fortunately my game was on form, the double century I batted was only eclipsed by my quintuple hat-trick. We retired to the clubhouse where I bought a round of two for the whole society on the grounds that I was the current envy of the group, having turned up later that night in a chino which put them completely to shame. The Belgian: The need for a “minor” came to mind during a seemingly useless prospection tour of a closed quarry, where pools of standing water were to be found. The Intern had suggested that in order to test the temperature of the water one only needed to dangle a child in the pond in question and hear it scream to measure its temperature with great precision. A snare was set up as the other members were pelting away at the pond. The Treasurer, moreover, was carrying an undefined object of considerable size and mass – it could have been a body, although I wasn’t interested in substantiating this claim – wrapped in an old carpet, naturally. The little yelps of local school children were music to my ears. The Intern: After failing to find any aggregates in the grit bin of Sainsburys, the Treasurer became irate. Seemingly blaming the societal members present, he sidled over to the bottle bank and began hurling disused milk bottles at us. His face was contorted with rage and confusion. It was obvious he had not accepted the situation. “This isn’t cricket”, he screamed, as he rained down transparent vessels upon us. “This isn’t bloody cricket.” We waited behind a hedge until he tired himself, at which point he crawled into the empty bottle bank, seemingly finally at peace. Conclusion to the report Recommendations: The Intern. Dear President, As you have no doubt already noticed, and surely been revolted by, the real criminal in this case is The Secretary. I entreat you to regard all of his actions in this case as grave errors of both commission and omission and to use the strength of character which have seen you rise to prominence in our society to ruthlessly punish this dastard who is, in my eyes and no doubt the eyes of the law, a coward, cheat and a ruffian worse than the most basic of deserters. Some mornings when I wake up in societal HQ I pray that I’ll find his letter of resignation lying in his cold, lifeless hand, although I doubt he possesses the character to commit even this final ignominy on himself. I have found him bereft of even the commonest decency for about a week now, and am left in shock and horror by the bi-hourly migrations of his hand from the surface of the desk he sits behind, doing nothing, to the most putrid area of his trouser. I call for immediate suspension! Recommendations: The Treasurer. Dear President, I blame the Secretary for everything! I call for immediate suspension! Recommendations: The Belgian. Mon President, J’ accuse the Secretary of tout. Il est un valeur et un recherche lâche, qui a le rhume couru par jus, profondément et amer avec les crimes de son ascendance tordue - qui je pense être des chevaux ou d’autres battements équins. I call for immediate suspension! Category:Incidents